One Thursday night before the albums drop I decide to let my organs reset,

         palms pressed to the soft animal of my belly and its coils finally

strung out by the little girl’s ancient hands. She fears fullness. Eyes wide,

         she says, You won’t be able to run or be loved, or commune with

this world without shame. She began to grow black fur and teeth and got

         louder in the winter so I listened. Wanting to be fleet of foot and

crystalline to the half-blind man I cleaned myself out. Emptied reserves.

         Until tonight with the music coming when I hold the little watchdog

in my belly’s red darkness until, protected, she stops trying to protect me,

         melts for now into the bed of self and awaits melody and sleep.